And meter will dictate the course of this being.
Its breath will syndicate syntax, lungs will fill with it.
The depth of it all will engulf the mind.
While you tangle with its presence, it will draw amour fidelis.
Past ways of confident days when things seemed a bit more sure.
less absurd, is my search for some simple piece of mind. Less assured that people will stay calmly behind-
Me.
I wonder through the city past regret and pity and stand at the forefront of this event, and the horizon is bent.
Cause i miss who i was and who i was wont be missed, but still i spend my better days searching for some bliss….
“Restless nights in one-night cheap hotels”
Let us go,
In to a night of characters that we seem to know from timeless archetype. Ill sit here while you waltz with Alfred for the time…
…1,2,3,4…
…. and in time you step.
and from afar i will admire the emasculation, eyes of mortality, and decay…
I aspire to the that longing, that emptiness, that frustration.
An old man who hold his tongue, as chance and passage move on. malingering yellow fog moves one, and on, and on…
I Have known the eyes, known them not in formulated phrase. Known them only as there slave, and i will try to let it pave some meaning of it all…
In my worlds the women rarely come and go, and i wish they would speak of Michelangelo….
Venture deep into you. Entangled in adventure that seems to lift you, curl you, allow you a feeling that screams you. I wanna dream too, I wanna find some comfort in it all the passion. Release frustration, how ever long it will last, then let the feeling die if it must, with just the scent lust to bind us to the memory.
Passive illusions will settle into the reality, symbiotically living casually while I live vicariously.
The foundation of a life lived, seems to melt away with this. You think a slight touch couldn’t do this, absence from physical sensations turn in to comfort sought elsewhere. Sought in the depths of the corner streetlights,
Creeping like that familiar fog.
Locked passions, seems unfamiliar. Yet a welcome friend indeed. So we take that lead in innocent embrace, and face down the loneliness of life if even for a short while.
And in inebriated style , we dive in to the depths of passion, and from it release human nature, a muse of some sorts, a refreshing feeling. With souls asleep, both just dreaming.
We live in Hugos dreams.
We paint the sky in reams of words,
attempting to illustrate some world where the purse is emptied,
& hearts are filled.
”Concision in style, precision in thought, decision in life.”
We attempt to be the bread thief,
We wanna be that Robbin hood.
We want to make believe that our crimes are for the greater good.
To be someone, not something…
But for now, we dream, & dreams.
too be infatuated with your destruction.
Entagle our passions in a dance like sex was going out of fashion.
Even though most my holidays were spent at food banks, shelters, church toy donation lines, i always loved the holidays.
I mean i never got too many gifts, the ones i did get kinda sucked, but it was the one time of year i felt closest with my family. It was those cold winters of my childhood that made me and my family grow stronger. I recall nights knowing i wouldnt get much, but spending hours on a wish list with the patients of a saint while i listed all my hearts desires. I always put on the list “a house for my mom and us”. I still got that paper, i still remember how hard it was for mom to get us anything at all. I wish all the times she cried during this season, would just melt away as we got older.
It was amazing how many smiles we got out of random years here and there. I guess when you live with gypsies, traps, and thieves, among the lowest it easy to have high moments in your life. The love that my family produced is amazing. I mean it created me, and i love the person i am. It made my sister, who is the most hard willed individual i know. And my mom…The strongest person i know. To raise two kids in a place where you know barely any English, with only a middle school education under her, and a life of poverty behind her. Most have never really experienced real racism in there life time, i watched my mother battle it constantly.
And with ever bit of broken English she molded this mind to love this language she was mocked for. She forged a mind who would be obsessed with syllables, and soliloquies. My admiration for poetry,and love of books, is rooted in her love for me. Shes proud of me and i know it, like she beat her insecurity with me.
I will be spending my holidays in the Hospital with her, returning my love to her. For everything…
Growing up is hard… i think its the first time i realized that.
and still this fiend dreams of more words,
seeking the truth & the absurd.
A Kerouac of sorts,
A writer to some extent.
A dreamer , if you dont know where the passion went.
Its made me a jaded fool, only seeing half of what was there. Not knowing what to write from when and where.
its been told, a couple billion times. Someone tell Heratio Alger to start writing about crimes, cause the flip of a pen doesnt create dollar or dimes.
